


coffee made with love

by hawkeyelover



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gun Violence, Guns, Minor Character Death, because aren’t we all, coffee shop AU, five is a secret softie, no one asked for this but here it is, number five/coffee, reader is a human disaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeyelover/pseuds/hawkeyelover
Summary: You run a small café on the corner shop to help support your mom. You’ve become a pro over the years, and there hasn’t been a single customer you couldn’t handle. Until that fateful day.There was nothing but empty air two seconds ago when you turned your back, and then he was just there.“One cup of your finest, blackest coffee.”Definitely not your usual kind of customer, but you’ve definitely had weirder. (You remember the man in the flower dress who was high as shit and ate half your inventory of cinnamon rolls.)Reader!fic where you’re a barista and the strangest kid keeps coming to your coffee shop carrying chaos in those deceiving little dimples of his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I just got done watching season one of the Umbrella Academy and this idea would not leave me alone so here it is! The fic no one asked for but is here anyway. Kind of like Number Five in this fic. If anyone like it, I’ll post more!
> 
> (And for those who are waiting on an update of my ‘your love would be too much’ I promise an update is coming soon! I’m halfway done with the next chapter!)

__

It’s an unusually cloudy day when _he_ shows up the first time— in all honesty that was probably some planned out foreshadowing of what was to come for you.

You’ve helped run this café since you were fourteen, ever since your mom took on a second job and you, the only child, had to step up and help out. You were kind of scared at first— how were you supposed to run a whole business pretty much on your own? (You could barely do your algebra homework!) But you managed to get into the swing of things eventually and here you are, edging on the cusp of adulthood at eighteen years old.

You run the shop like a pro now, and it might not be exactly Starbucks (those corporate thieves) but it runs just fine and the locals adore you and your little café. _“The best coffee around!”_ They say and you always try but fail to stamp out the warmth inside you from the glowing praise.

It’s not the most glorious job, being a full time barista, but you enjoy helping out your mom in any way you can, since it’s just the two of you. You don’t spend a lot of time together because of this arrangement, but you appreciate every moment you get with her.

You muse on this, not for the first time, your eyes settling on a framed photo of you two on one of the walls—your mother with her hands on your shoulders and little you in a too big apron at the grand opening of the shop years ago. 

Bedsides the old bird that pretty much stayed all day everyday soaking up the free WiFi, the cafe was usually pretty empty this late in the day. People were usually at work, so you half heartedly milled around and worked on your homework. 

And then you see him. There was nothing but empty air two seconds ago when you turned your back, and then he was just there. You yelp in surprise, clutching the front of your apron.

His lips tilt, his eyes amused and not the least bit remorseful or apologetic, which tells you this is not the first time this boy has scared the living shit out of an innocent bystander. “Hi, there.” He greets, all dimples and neatly combed hair.

He couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen and he’s wearing a schoolboy uniform, which leads you to believe he’s probably just left school. (But he has no backpack or school supplies of  any kind).

Definitely not your usual kind of customer, but you’ve definitely had weirder. (You remember the man in the flower dress who was high as shit and ate half your inventory of cinnamon rolls.) Pushing your thought aside, you don your customer service smile.

“What can I get for you, sir?” He almost preens at that last word, shoulders squaring and you resist the urge to chuckle. Children love being addressed like an adult, so you do all the time to tease a giggle out of them.

“One cup of your finest, blackest coffee.” The boy responds. Huh. Black coffee—the one thing no kid could ever enjoy. Briefly, you wonder where the hell this kid’s parents are. Not that he’s in any imminent danger here, but you’re not exactly located in the safest city either. Regardless, you set about pouring a cup.

“You from around here?” You ask casually, trying your hand at small talk. You do genuinely wonder if he is, though, because you’ve seen what wealthier people wear and that uniform looked like it was tailored perfectly with fine looking material. Prep school maybe? Catholic? Do kids wear this kind of stuff nowadays?

His smirk only grows. “Nope.” Well. That answered absolutely jackshit. Okay, then.

“That’ll be 2.06,” you inform him, he digs through his pockets and slides over a five.

“Here you go.” You hand the mug to him, and he’s careful not to let your fingers touch. Germaphobe maybe?

The kid thanks you oh so formally (so polite, how cute!) and takes a good mouthful the way an experienced coffee drinker would. Damn. Your mouth drops open a little and you stall in getting his change.

He smacks his lips and his blue eyes widen to comical proportions. His hand darts out to wrap around your wrist at lightning speed, and you jump, startled, dropping bills and the coins and they roll all over the counter. He leans forward, his gaze sharp and impaling. (There’s something very, very old in his eyes.)

“ _What brand is this_?” His voice is pitched low and serious. You blink, wide eyed. But his stare is demanding and authoritative (Not normal for a kid.) and you stammer out:

“Uh, it’s not store bought. I make it fresh every morning. Grind the beans myself. They’re exported from friends out of country.” The words nearly blur together with how fast they tumble out of your mouth.

He squints, and for some reason it makes you squirm. This was literally a child, why are you so freaked out? (Maybe it was that scary movie you watched the other night with the possessed little kid. G-ddammit.) Pointedly, you give your wrist a little tug. You just want to give this kid his change and get him out your shop.

The kid seems to realize he’s still holding onto you and lets go, proceeding to down the rest of the coffee in one go while you hunt for his dropped change. You straighten from where you were crouched on the ground, and when you look up he’s leaning over the counter on both hands, propping his knees on the stool.

“Got a card?” His pale eyes still have that intense look that freaks you out, so you’re quick in pulling a business card with the café’s details. He plucks it from your fingers, scanning the address with great concentration as if memorizing it. His gaze flicks to you again, and he smiles placidly.

“Thanks. Could I get a cup to go?” Those little dimples are back and you scramble for a to-go cup. He reaches in his pocket for money, and you shake your head vehemently.

“No”, you blurt. “That’s okay. On the house.” You grin tightly. He pauses, cocking a brow. (As if you’re the strange one here!)

“Why thank you. Have a nice day.” He hops off the stool and you close your eyes for a moment to scrub a hand over your face. “You too—“ You open your eyes, and the kid is fucking gone. (What the fuck.) When you close up shop later in the night, you wonder if you made the whole thing up.

He said he wasn’t from around here, so you hope that means you won’t be seeing him again.

 _Right_?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some of you let me know how much you liked it— thanks so much!! Definitely fuel to write more. Enjoy this chapter!

__

Okay, so you were dead wrong about the kid not coming back.

In fact, much to your great chagrin, he stopped by at least once a day. Every fucking day. You swear to every deity out there he just magically pops in and out, quick and silent as a fox. There one moment and gone the next. Most of the time, he buys a to-go cup and vanishes with a two fingered salute and that cocky little smirk.

His sudden appearances and equally sudden disappearances scare the shit out of you every time and you just know the kid is well aware of it. He never seems to tire from frightening you, amused by your fumbling attempts to hasten his orders just to get him to leave. It sort of went like this one time:

“Good morning.” A familiar voice sounds from above you as you were grabbing extra napkins to restock. You hadn’t even opened yet.

Nevertheless, he catches you by surprise (like always) and you let out a little scream, rising only to hit your head on the bottom of the countertop with a hard think.

“Fuck!” You can’t help but hiss under your breath, your free hand rubbing the lump starting to grow and you straighten to face him. 

The kid looks like he’s suppressing a grin, mirth dancing in his bright eyes. Little shit.

You just barely manage to hold back a sigh. “How did you even get in here?” You grumble. Your mother would be appalled at your manners, but by now you and the kid know each other. There’s a routine. He comes, you glare, he leaves. The routine.

“Maybe I teleported.” He says sardonically, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes. “Who’s to say?”

You feel your eye twitch, just a little. Customer service smile. Customer service smile. You plaster on a grin and force and very mechanical sounding laugh, the kind you make when your teacher makes a bad joke but you really want that grade. “The usual?” Let’s cut to the chase here, kid.

He places a hand over his heart, tipping his head to one side with a fake smile. “You just know me so well.” If there’s one thing you learned about this kid, it’s that he’s got a real mouth on him.

“Since we haven’t even opened yet,” you emphasize this fact by gesturing around the bare tables with the chairs still on top, “you’re gonna have to wait.”

The smile slides off his face like water, and his dark shapely brows furrow in displeasure. You almost take glee in getting one over on him. Almost. You’re the adult here, after all.

“Fine.” He’s almost pouting. “Be quick about it.” (You ignore that last part.)

There’s honestly so many questions here that you’ve both had and some you still have and you don’t even know where to start. He’s always here alone which is alarming in and of itself. (Does he have a family? For all that he irritates you, you sure hope he does.) He’s always in the uniform. Even on weekends. (Does his education curriculum require classes on the weekends? Do kids do that now?) He shows up at odd hours of the day (never during rush hour you note), which makes you wonder if he even has classes at all. (And he always pays with five dollar bills. What is up with that?)

For all these questions, there’s nary an answer. They’re always insanely vague or curt or said in some way that makes you feel like you’re missing something. It usually used to go like this:

_“You don’t walk here here, do you?”_

_A flat chuckle. “No.”_

_“...bus?”_

_“Nah. Too many people annoy me.”_

_“Okay, so your parents drop you off?”_

_“I’m very sure I ordered a cup of coffee. Not an interrogation.”_

Okay, rude.

_“Shouldn’t you be in school?” You raise an eyebrow accusingly when he pops in at around two in the afternoon on a Wednesday._

_“Shouldn’t **you**?” He snarks back, mockingly mimicking your sassy brow._

_“I’m homeschooled.” You retort confidently._

_“So am I.”_

_You scowl, defeated, and he smiles all fake sweet._

Brat.

But so far, the most alarming answer you’ve gotten was from this particular discussion. 

You’d been pestering him to eat something (not like you cared about his well-being or anything like that) and you’d said—

_“Look, kid. Just take the cinnamon roll , you never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Just enjoy life’s little pleasures. ”You were half joking, half insisting, but you stopped short when he locked eyes with you._

_“I do, actually.” His face was devoid of emotion. Something was happening beyond the blank look he sported, something dark and terrible and crumbling behind his eyes. He hid it well, but you recognized the look. It was the same one you mother got whenever your father was mentioned._

_“You know the future?_

_“I know everything.”_

_You stared at each other in the ensuing silence. The statement was bold and seemed very unlikely, but something stopped you from refuting it._

_Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t have. He gulped the last of his drink and vanished in a blink of light._

That was the first time you really saw him disappear (you firmly suppress that fact because that would mean admitting you’re insane) and after that, you never asked another question.

“Tick tock, barista person.” You glare over your shoulder from where you were flipping the open sign.

He was clutching the seat of his stool, the worn leather cracking under his grip. One hands lets go to waggle thin fingers at you impatiently. His legs swing all childlike.

“Yeah, I’m coming, I’m coming.” You set about making a pot. “I have a name, you know.” You tack on, petulantly.

“Oh, are we on a first name basis now?” He quips. “Moving a little fast there, don’t you think?” This kid was just brimming with snark.

“But I thought I knew you so well?” You throw it right back at him, determined not to be defeated in this game of wit by a literal child.

He blinks, caught off guard, and you turn to grab his order so he doesn’t see your victorious grin. And when you turn around with his cup, you’re surprised to see a hint of delight in the minute quirk of his mouth. For the grouchy little ankle biter act, he seems to be secretly pleased with the game of retorts you two have everyday.

(Not that you are, though. Definitely not.)

The familiar bell from the opening door catches your attention and you remember that, yes, you have a life outside this weird kid.

The place starts to fill up with the usual morning rush hour, which is basically businessmen snapping away at their Bluetooths and tired teenagers about to go to class.

For some odd reason, you glance at where the boy was sitting and surprise surprise, he’s nowhere to be found. In his place, a five dollar bill (Seriously. What is his obsession with five dollar bills?) He never takes change from you (weird thing #2536728 about him) and when you do manage to push it into his hands along with his drink, he just drops it in the tip jar and vanishes before you can thank him. Every time. You tried it once.

_“You know, there is such a thing as pocketing change, kid,” you mused aloud as you wiped down the counter._

_He scowled. “I’m not a kid.”_

_You rolled your eyes, but you’ve heard this before. Every kid says that. **You** still say that._

_“I mean, the tips are very much appreciated.” You almost snicker at the repulsed look on his face._

_“What are you talking about?” He deadpanned. You hid a smile. He’s much like the croissants you make for Tuesday Morning Specials— flaky and brittle on the outside, sweet and soft on the inside._

_“You know exactly what I’m talking about, kid.”_

_“I said—“ He cut himself off with an angry huff. “Don’t call me kid.” He’d muttered into his mug, and you’d figured that you pestered him enough about it. You definitely did not mind the hefty tips, and you didn’t want them to stop._

The day came and went and you were just about to lock up before you left. The café might be a side thing to help with bills but you loved this little place— mainly because it was right across the street from your apartment.

The moment you’re about to shut the door, you see a dark shadow in the reflection of the glass pane and before you can scream something hard nudges you between your shoulder blades and you stiffen. Shit.

“Get inside,” the stranger rumbles, shoving you with what you presume to be a gun.

On the outside you’re blank-faced and tense, but on the inside, you’re cursing yourself for being an absolute moron. Again, you don’t live in the safest city. This isn’t the first time you’ve been robbed, but this is the first time you’ve been met with a deadly weapon and someone not afraid to use it.

“Okay, man. Just take it easy.” You try to placate once inside. The shake in your voice betrays your fear.

“Shut the fuck up, and open the register.”You do as you’re told, and you consider going for the pepper spray in your pocket. The different outcomes spin wildly in your head. Would you be fast enough? Should you hide behind the counter? Try to fight him?

“ _Hurry the fuck up_!” He shouts angrily, waving the gun and stepping forward menacingly. “Put it in a bag.”

You flinch, and stuff your hard day’s work into a brown paper to-go bag. Maybe you’ll get out this alive, you think. Maybe it’ll be okay. But then, because you’re you, a complete disaster of a human being, you mistakenly look up to hand the bag from behind the counter and freeze.

He swears under his breath and yanks his hood further down, but you’ve seen enough to condemn him if it came down to it. He raises the gun point blank to your face.

The only thing you think about is your mom.

They say, with things like these, that time slows down. You see it in movies, TV shows, read it in books. They’re all filthy g-ddamn liars. Because what happens next is definitely not in slow motion. It happens in the blink of an eye.

One moment he’s about to pull the trigger, and the next there’s a knife sliding across his throat, red spraying far enough to spatter hot on your face. The thug’s arm jolts, and the bullet goes wide, shooting the ridiculous “ **Live, Love, Coffee** ” sign your mom refused to let you take down. Thank G-d for small mercies. 

You want to scream, but there’s no breath in your lungs. The man falls dead to the floor. You stare at him, completely dumbfounded as blood begins to pool under his body.

You _just_ mopped those floors.

Your knees turn to jelly, and you sink to the floor, gasping for breath. Sirens sound in the distance.

The cops come, and you have zero idea who could’ve possibly called them. Definitely not you. You were huddled like a pussy still behind the counter.

They wrap a shock blanket around your shoulders and lead you out, steering you clear of the body and you’re grateful for it. They call your mom for you. At some point you wonder if they think you killed him. After the police question you, they clear you because, really. You don’t look like you could kill anyone. They’re still skeptical about your recount of what happened, but the evidence on your fucking face supports your story.

You think maybe. Just maybe before the police arrived, that you saw a brief flash of blue light. Maybe.

You dismiss it as siren lights.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took forever to pump out. Sorry. This didn’t turn out the way I wanted to (also is this turning out into a whole ass story? Oops.) and I wanted something to decent to post. Enjoy I guess.

After The Incident, your mom naturally freaks out and tries to motherhen you into your apartment for a few days off— but she’s already working two jobs and there is no way in hell you’ll make her work any more than she has to. You fight about this for a while, until you compromise on closing up shop a little early for a few days.

You haven’t seen the kid all day, and you haven’t thought about him either—the whole experience had you very shaken. Your hands shook when you poured coffee, and you flinched at any loud noise. 

(At night, you dream of your father and knives and gunfire.)

You refuse to turn your back on anyone, which makes your job a little more difficult but you’re too paranoid to care. At around three hours before usual closing time, you’re wrapping things up and making sure the doors are locked tight. (You just wanna whip around to run to the safety of your apartment, but that shop’s your family’s pride and joy, and you’re responsible for it.)

“ _Hey_ ,” you hear from behind, and you lose your shit.

You whirl fast enough to give yourself whiplash, brandishing pepper spray and snarling.

“Shit!” The figure steps back hastily, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Easy, there.”

You blink hard, a few times. The fading sunlight illuminates the figure easy enough, it’s—

“Kid...?” You whisper, and you recognize those schoolboy shorts and floppy brown hair and pale eyes. But for some reason, your hand won’t lower.

“Just me,” He concedes. His dark brows are knitted with...some kind of emotion. Not one you recognize. “You wanna stop pointing that thing at me?” His brows raise.

Oh. Right. Slowly, your arm bends and you shove your shaking hands into your pockets. You feel a little embarrassed for freaking out because of a child. You clear your throat. “What are you doing here? We’re closed.

“I see that.” His eyes dart all over your face. Probably taking in how awful you look. You haven’t been sleeping (the nightmares have kept you up) and you’ve kept yourself busy by burying yourself in work, giving you some lovely dark circles and an overall paler complexion.

“Little early to be closing up shop.” He notes casually.

“Yeah, well.” The sun’s rays are fading, and you can’t help but nervously glance around. Unbeknownst to you, the boy zeroes in on the movement. “It’s just for a while.”

His eyes narrow, speculating. “Why?”

That gaze makes you feel pinned, and you swallow.

“Because I say so.” Apparently, this answer is unsatisfactory, because he scowls. It sounds like something your mom would say, and to be truthful it’d probably annoy you, too.

“Just go home, kid, okay?” You mutter, and you want to walk past him, but you don’t want him behind you. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He comes out with, bluntly, and you’re taken aback at the brash question.

“Look, kid—“

“I’ve told you not to call me that—“

“—I just want to do some homework and go to bed, okay?”

The boy is unperturbed. He mirrors you, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Then go.” His face is blank.

Fuck. This is a test. He knows, somehow, that you won’t turn your back on him, _you won’t_. You grind your teeth, your exhaustion catching up to you real quick. The lack of sleep isn’t helping either.

“Just move.” You force out.

“I’m fine right here. Go around.” He retorts.

Damnit. Like a damn fool, you circle him, keeping an eye out all the while on the rapidly darkening streets. You flash a tight, plastic grin and offer a jaunty little, “Bye!” And scuttle to the double doors of your apartment complex.

Behind you, he gives you a flat look, completely unimpressed, and trails after. Your hands shake when you unlock the door, and before you can slam it shut behind you, the scrawny boy is shooting a hand out to stop it in its tracks. That is apparently the last straw. 

“Why can’t you just _go away_!” You yell, your thinned patience snapping, and the boy’s demeanor darkens in an instant.

“ _Not anytime soon_ ,” he replies coolly, and there is something behind his eyes again, manic and wild and familiar and you flinch, stumbling back as he advances on you. ( _It definitely doesn’t feel like you’re looking at a kid. Not at all._ )

The hairs on the back of your neck are lifting, goosebumps raise on your arms. It’s that same feeling you get when you’re being watched, the feeling you get when you’re face to face with a wild animal (or a gun). You have no idea what could be triggering this.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls, and you almost cry out in relief. “There a problem, here?” Your doorman, Ernie, looks up from his newspaper, looking between the two of you.

Is there? It’s a child, for crying out loud. Did the attempted robbery really mess you up that much? To drive you to this point of paranoia? (You know it wasn’t. It wasn’t even the gun in your face.) Before you can say anything, your least favorite little weirdo smiles wide, dimple and everything.

“Not at all. Just a tutoring session.” His eyes crinkle, and he rocks back and forth on his heels with a boyish grin. “Really been helping me out with pre-algebra.” The little shit pours on the charm, enough to relax Ernie’s wrinkled brow, and long icy fingers wrap tight around your wrist to pull you to the elevator. You are helplessly at a loss for words.

“Tutoring, huh? Well, don’t work yourself too hard! You do too much as it is, ya know,” the old man’s voice chides fondly, before the elevator doors shut.

You rip away from the little psycho, and surprisingly, he lets you.

“What the hell is your problem?” You hiss, rubbing the spot where he nearly cut off your circulation. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

He presses the button for the fifth floor (how on earth does he know what floor you live on?) and casually folds his arms. “It’s not in my best interest.” He says simply, and you gawk. 

“Not in your—?” This has gone on long enough. “I will call the fucking cops,” you hiss, and when the doors open you storm out, but hesitate stomping straight to your door— you don’t want him knowing where you live.

“Oh? And tell them what?” He looks smug.

But he’s right. What the hell would you even say? Yeah, this small child is seriously creeping me out. Please arrest him, thank you.

You run your hands through your hair roughly, almost painfully, in sheer frustration and take deep breaths. Okay. Okay.“Whatever,” you breathe out in resignation, and honestly you are just so g-ddamn tired. Screw your homework, you just want a goodnight’s sleep.

The moment you touch your doorknob, however—

Your whole world explodes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay! College is kicking my ass, so next chapter might take a little bit since exams are coming up. But onto the story—enjoy!

The moment you touch your doorknob, your world turns to fire.

You feel yourself get knocked clean off your feet by the explosion and you think you might have blacked out for a few seconds because the next thing you know is that you’re flat on your back.

There’s this horrible ringing in your left ear, and when you touch it, your fingers come back wet with blood. The roaring of flames is muffled, and you struggle to see through your blurred vision. You shift onto your side, groaning, and you note blearily that the apartment five doors down is up in flames— the tips lick the ceiling with a deadly threat to set the whole building ablaze. 

And everyone in it. You included, your brain urges, if you don’t get the fuck up right now. Well, you and—

The kid!

“ _Shit_!” You hiss, and scramble to get your footing. It takes a few seconds because your head hurts like your brain was placed into a blender on “mince” and the world is still spinning around you. Your left wrist burns vaguely with the effort to lift yourself up off the floor, but you pay it no mind because the pain is already fading—adrenaline is setting in.

“Kid! _Kid_!” (Ugh, why couldn’t the short stack give you a name?) You cough violently, the building smoke stinging the back of your throat and your insides. Peering through the smoke, you spot a small figure slumped on the ground.

 _No_.

You half crawl, half scuttle over to him and your heart fucking drops to your stomach. He looks so. . . small. (Not a word you would dare use to describe him.) Blood paints the side of his head and you—

(— _pull the shower curtain back, and you know what you’ll find, you what’s there because the outcome never changes_ —)

You crouch over him, shielding him from the rising flames. Shaking hands hover frantically over his shoulders, unsure of what to do. What if he had a spinal injury? But the fire trumps that right? Wait, is he breathing? Your head swam with questions, but in the end, you decide it’s best to move him, like, _now_.

You slide your arms under him, carefully, and lift up, trembling with the effort— he’s heavier than he looks. You half turn and use the side of your body to push open the door to the stairwell, and sweet mother of God did you have to live on the fifth floor?

Going down the stairs with a body is definitely a challenge. You shake with every step, trying to keep the boy’s head still on your shoulder—you don’t want him moving around too much. You can’t really see where your feet are landing, you just hold on tight and pray that you don’t miss a step. You make it to the lobby and hesitate. 

It feels wrong, somehow, to waltz out the front door. You gut tells you to go out the side door, and because your day (your week, really) honestly could not get any crazier, you listen. You stumble further into the alley, and to your great relief hear sirens wailing in the far distance. Sirens means an ambulance. But you don’t stop, wanting to get as far from the burning building as possible.

You reach a distance you deem safe, and gently set down your cargo, panting with the exertion. Gently, you prop the boy against a wall, crouching next to him, cradling his head between your hands to keep it steady.

Something warm and red seeps between your fingers on one hand and you pointedly ignore it. His eyelids flutter, dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. He looks so much younger, like this.

(— _and it’s his face, fine lines from age relaxed in his sleep, the gun sits in his hand_ —)

“Hey,” you say softly, peering at him. You try to not let your voice shake. “Wake up.”

(“ _Please, please wake up_ —“)

“ _Wake up_.”

He groans, face pinching and you let out a sigh of relief. The adrenaline is wearing off now, your wrist is on fire and your ear is throbbing. Something in your side twists in pain—you hadn’t even noticed it before. You pull your hands off and land roughly on your ass, hands inching over your ribs.

Ow.

The pain brings tears to your eyes, makes your hands tremble. You hear the kid stir some more, mumbling your name. The sirens are louder now. You hear the fire roaring in the place you’ve called home for years now.

Slowly, you slump onto your side, pressing your sweaty temple to the cool ground below. Suddenly you’re exhausted to your bones, and your whole being is shaky.

“Hey...”

The last thing you hear is the sound of your name before you close your eyes and float into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie, a lot going on. What do y’all think is happening ??


End file.
